An Unanticipated Visitor
by dragoncatofpern
Summary: Captain Jack remembers an old friend from a long time ago. But what happens when that friend reappears? And what does Ianto have to do with it? Oneshot, mild Janto, Jack/Fr, and Fr/Joan of Arc. Ianto denial? I'm totally not in Ianto denial. Rated T for language. Warning: Research geek ahead. Update: Now going to be a series of oneshots! Yay! With more characters, pairings, etc.
1. What?

**Hi! This one's rather long for a oneshot, but here it is. Neither Torchwood nor Hetalia belong to me, and no, I'm not quite as much of a research geek as the footnotes make me seem. I am happy to help with any historical research people are doing, though! :)**

It was a slow day for the Torchwood team. Jack sat at his computer glancing through the nearby CCTV footage. Tosh was updating the logs, Ianto was off at a family meeting somewhere. Owen was cleaning up his work area while Gwen organized the newly found alien tech from last time. Jack looked back up to his monitor and froze. There was a particular man, strolling down a particular street. The man looked back at the monitor and smirked. Shoulder-length blond hair, dark blue eyes, dark blue military uniform with a sort of cape around his shoulders—him. Jack glared at the computer screen in a moment, hoping he would go away.  
Flashback.  
 _June 6, 1944. The day the Americans rode into Paris. The first to greet them after the liberation was a Frenchman with long blond hair and strange blue eyes that matched the color of his stained, bloody, battered blue uniform. He looked exhausted with circles under his eyes and an assortment of bruises and the hand that held a cigarette to his mouth trembled noticeably. Yet the man's composure was still perfect in that uniquely French way. Slumped shoulders, casual pose, old, sad eyes. Those eyes reminded Jack of the Doctor.  
_ Jack growled to himself. What was the Frenchman's name, back then? He had first introduced himself as "Câblier", which was apparently some kind of boat. All the French resistance took use-names to try and be a little less obvious about who they were. But Jack had sat down with the man afterward and tried to talk to him. The strange, flirtatious, philosophical man. What was his real name?  
"Toshiko?" Jack stood up. "I've found something. I need you and Gwen to get all the information you can on a man named Francis Bonnefoy. He was also called "Câblier" for a while, so look under that name too please."

Jack finally strode into the briefing room, last of all the team, paper copy of what the team had found still warm from the printer in his hand.  
"We have sightings of this Frenchman going an awfully long way back. As in around two thousand years. Over that time, he's been documented to have aged about twenty."  
Gwen's eyebrows rose and Ianto gave a short whistle.  
"The first possible sighting we have was about 58 BCE, documented by the romans during their invasion of Gaul. We don't know for sure if it was the same person, but the description is pretty similar except for the person describing looking to be about six years old."  
Jack clicked the remote for the projector to show the screenshot he'd taken from the CCTV records and beside it a scan of a picture he'd found that had been taken back during the war, of the man and a woman with short blondish hair and mossy green eyes.  
"Documented sightings continue with less frequency until about the fifth century when a young man fitting his description was repeatedly mentioned as an advisor to the king at the time for several hundred years. The only name we have for him during that time period is "Felix"*. Several centuries later, he was mentioned to be a close and trusted friend of Charlemanne. The next important sighting we have is during the Hundred Years' War where he reportedly led the French armies against the British beside Joan of Arc, as if they were married, but there are no accounts of them having actually been formally wedded. He was devastated when she died. By that time, his name had changed to François*"  
Owen gave Jack an incredulous look. "You're saying this guy just _happened_ to be friends with some of the most important people in French history, has been alive since before Julius Caesar, you just saw him on the CCTV records, and yet he only changes his name every few _centuries_? How do you go around with such an old name anyway?"  
"At least he changed it eventually." Gwen interjected.  
"Back on topic, people!" Jack continued. "Yeah, I know the history is probably boring some of you so fine. I'll skip ahead a bit. There was one section during the final battle of the Hundred Years' War, the battle of Castillon, where he was apparently talking to the leader of the British army and they addressed each other by different names—François was referred to as "France" and the other leader, I think his name was Arthur something-or-other was referred to alternately as "England" and "you bastard"."  
That got some chuckles.  
"During the 18th century, are mystery man changes his to Francis Bonnefoy. He was mentioned to be present during the negotiations and signing of the treaty of Versailles after World War 1 and instrumental in the Resistance during World War 2, which I know a little more intimately than the rest of French history. That's where this picture was from."  
Jack gestured to the projected images.  
"We have rather a lot of pictures from then onward until modern day, in the backgrounds of pictures and in military pictures as well as just souvenir pictures, like friends take. As I mentioned before, during WWII he was also known as Câblier*, as a pseudonym. Two thousand years is a very long time to look no older than in your late twenties. We need to capture him and find out what he is and why he's here." _A pity,_ thought Jack. _I liked him._ "Any ideas?"

It was only a few hours later by the time they had Francis Bonnefoy in one of Torchwood's cells. Gwen tossed Jack the device they'd used to put the presumed alien in a force cage and strode upstairs, leaving Jack and the unconscious man alone. The unconscious, stunningly beautiful man, as pretty in sleep as he had been under the layer of grit and arrogant nonchalance he'd worn when Jack and the Frenchman first met. Jack stood as silent as he could, telling his libido sternly to _calm down._ No making out with unknown aliens, not while the alien in question was asleep and unable to give any kind of consent, not on camera and most definitely not without Ianto's knowledge and permission. Finally, after what felt like almost half an hour of waiting, the alien opened his eyes, started to yawn—and saw Jack.  
"Merde.*"

Jack looked at the alien. The man in question scrutinized him for a moment, then his eyes widened slightly, as if in realization. Francis smiled a neutral smile.  
"Bonjour, Capitaine." - _Hello, Captain-*_ The Frenchman straightened up from his sleeping sprawl until he sat slouching on the bench. "Jack Harkness, is it?" The accent wasn't as thick as Jack remembered, but then he had had a bit longer to perfect it since the two last met.  
"Francis." Jack drawled calmly. "I suppose you wouldn't mind telling me what you're doing still alive?"  
The country grinned innocently. "I assume you won't accept that it's because I could never bear to die before you and leave you with such grief at my loss that I would rather die than inflict it?"  
Jack snorted. "Nice try. Why are you really here?"  
Francis laughed, blue eyes sparkling. "It was worth a try. Why are you still here?"  
"Do you really think I'll tell you?"  
The man's blue eyes grew dimmer. "Non. You always did keep your secrets. And now one of those secrets mean you have me here, trapped in a little cage far away from a good wine and the lovely lady that is Paris. Will you do with me as you did with the spy you found as we drove the Germans out of Italy?"  
"No!" Jack's eyes flashed, then he calmed himself with an effort. "If I have to hurt you, Francis, you'll never know what happened. One second you'll be alive, the next you'll be dead. Just tell me what you are and maybe I can let you go."  
"First, tell me one thing. Une petite réponse pour un petit question. " _-One little answer for one little question-.  
_ "What?"  
"What is your little organization for? Your purpose in doing this?"  
"We're Torchwood. That's the only thing I can tell you, and if you try and learn more about it I swear won't find anything—what?"  
Francis had burst out laughing at the mention of Torchwood. "Torchwood? Torchwood?!" he cried. "I thought Rosbif shut that down centuries ago out of sheer embarrassment! Eyebrows still has an organization devoted to tending his fairies?! Ce n'est pas vrai. _–that can't be true-_ I will have to tell Am—Alfred about this, the annoying petit idiot." He gave a final snicker before managing to soothe his laughter a bit.  
"What do you know about Torchwood?" Jack asked guardedly.  
"Pas beaucoup. _–not much-_ I know Arthur founded it a couple hundred years ago to try and 'defend the Earth from outside threats'. But then, Arthur is always talking with fairies and things that don't exist. I thought he shut it down a while ago. Now if he had said it was aliens he was after, that would be different. I've seen aliens before, Alfred's best friend is one."  
Jack raised his eyebrows skeptically. "I don't think I've ever heard of this Arthur of yours, but I do know we're not shut down. And where is this Alfred that has an alien friend? I've never seen that kind of arrangement to end well."  
"Oh, don't you worry, Jacques mon cher. Alfred can take care of himself."  
"I answered your question, Francis. Now answer mine," Jack growled. "What are you?"  
"A boat," Francis answered softly, holding a bright red rose to his lips.  
"That's no kind of answer. Where did you get the flower?"  
"Everywhere."  
"What?" Jack asked incredulously.  
"I got the flower from everywhere," Francis answered calmly. "And I am like a boat. Je ne sais, mais l'État demeura toujours. _–I don't know for sure, but the country will always exist—_ While there is wind in my sail, I must endure, even if I wish I didn't have to."  
"Give me a straight answer," said Jack, "or I shoot your leg."  
"Pardon." Francis leaned up against the plexiglass wall of the cell, legs crossed, shoulders slouched as ever, the stem of the rose held up to his mouth as if it were a cigarette. He looked for all the world like a personification of everything that made French people French, a person seemingly built of nothing but wine, art, cities, and a calm dignity that stayed despite the weevil clawing at the other side of the plexiglass.  
"I am not allowed to tell."  
 _Bang!  
_ Francis jumped. But there was no searing pain, and the captain in his trench coat looked as startled as he did. Jack Harkness whipped around to face the door, gun at the ready. It was Ianto, slightly out of breath, followed by all three other members of the team as they tried to restrain him. The noise had been caused by the door hitting the wall. Francis had leaned back against the corner, staring at Ianto from irritated eyes.  
"Let him go, Jack!" Ianto said tiredly. "I know who he is and he's safe."  
Jack's eyebrows found their way back up into his hair.  
"I've met him before, Ianto. Almost a century ago."  
Ianto ran his fingers through his hair. "Yeah, I know about that, but I'm not allowed to tell you. Just let him go."  
"You knew about this."  
"Yeah."  
"And you didn't tell me."  
Ianto sighed. "I can't. En—Arthur would kill me. So would Ludwig. And probably also Ivan, though it's hard to tell his reaction to anything. Except vodka. And his sister. Natasha, not the older sister."  
"You said you were visiting family." Jack's voice was monotone.  
"I was. Francis is my brother. One of my brothers. Not by blood, of course."  
"Of course. And why _exactly_ can't you tell me?"  
Ianto exchanged glances with Francis.  
"I know you can keep a secret. This is an important one, and if you tell it I will quite likely suffer some rather extreme consequences. Let me introduce myself. Jack Harkness, My name is Ianto Jones. My name is also Wales. Francis, allow me to introduce my boss, Captain Jack Harkness. Sir, this is Francis Bonnefoy, better known as France."  
"Enchanté."

*pronounced f-eh-leex, one of the few presumably masculine French names we know of in that time period and the closest I could find to Francis. It's the nominative form of the latin word for happy.

*From early 15th century Paris, taken from tax rolls from that time period.

*A type of boat dating from the mid 19th century used to lay down underwater cables for things like telecommunications.

*Relatively mild French swearword

*Text in between dashes is the English translation

It was a slow day for the Torchwood team. Jack sat at his computer glancing through the nearby CCTV footage. Tosh was updating the logs, Ianto was off at a family meeting somewhere. Owen was cleaning up his work area while Gwen organized the newly found alien tech from last time. Jack looked back up to his monitor and froze. There was a particular man, strolling down a particular street. The man looked back at the monitor and smirked. Shoulder-length blond hair, dark blue eyes, dark blue military uniform with a sort of cape around his shoulders—him. Jack glared at the computer screen in a moment, hoping he would go away.  
Flashback.  
 _June 6, 1944. The day the Americans rode into Paris. The first to greet them after the liberation was a Frenchman with long blond hair and strange blue eyes that matched the color of his stained, bloody, battered blue uniform. He looked exhausted with circles under his eyes and an assortment of bruises and the hand that held a cigarette to his mouth trembled noticeably. Yet the man's composure was still perfect in that uniquely French way. Slumped shoulders, casual pose, old, sad eyes. Those eyes reminded Jack of the Doctor.  
_ Jack growled to himself. What was the Frenchman's name, back then? He had first introduced himself as "Câblier", which was apparently some kind of boat. All the French resistance took use-names to try and be a little less obvious about who they were. But Jack had sat down with the man afterward and tried to talk to him. The strange, flirtatious, philosophical man. What was his real name?  
"Toshiko?" Jack stood up. "I've found something. I need you and Gwen to get all the information you can on a man named Francis Bonnefoy. He was also called "Câblier" for a while, so look under that name too please."

Jack finally strode into the briefing room, last of all the team, paper copy of what the team had found still warm from the printer in his hand.  
"We have sightings of this Frenchman going an awfully long way back. As in around two thousand years. Over that time, he's been documented to have aged about twenty."  
Gwen's eyebrows rose and Ianto gave a short whistle.  
"The first possible sighting we have was about 58 BCE, documented by the romans during their invasion of Gaul. We don't know for sure if it was the same person, but the description is pretty similar except for the person describing looking to be about six years old."  
Jack clicked the remote for the projector to show the screenshot he'd taken from the CCTV records and beside it a scan of a picture he'd found that had been taken back during the war, of the man and a woman with short blondish hair and mossy green eyes.  
"Documented sightings continue with less frequency until about the fifth century when a young man fitting his description was repeatedly mentioned as an advisor to the king at the time for several hundred years. The only name we have for him during that time period is "Felix"*. Several centuries later, he was mentioned to be a close and trusted friend of Charlemanne. The next important sighting we have is during the Hundred Years' War where he reportedly led the French armies against the British beside Joan of Arc, as if they were married, but there are no accounts of them having actually been formally wedded. He was devastated when she died. By that time, his name had changed to François*"  
Owen gave Jack an incredulous look. "You're saying this guy just _happened_ to be friends with some of the most important people in French history, has been alive since before Julius Caesar, you just saw him on the CCTV records, and yet he only changes his name every few _centuries_? How do you go around with such an old name anyway?"  
"At least he changed it eventually." Gwen interjected.  
"Back on topic, people!" Jack continued. "Yeah, I know the history is probably boring some of you so fine. I'll skip ahead a bit. There was one section during the final battle of the Hundred Years' War, the battle of Castillon, where he was apparently talking to the leader of the British army and they addressed each other by different names—François was referred to as "France" and the other leader, I think his name was Arthur something-or-other was referred to alternately as "England" and "you bastard"."  
That got some chuckles.  
"During the 18th century, are mystery man changes his to Francis Bonnefoy. He was mentioned to be present during the negotiations and signing of the treaty of Versailles after World War 1 and instrumental in the Resistance during World War 2, which I know a little more intimately than the rest of French history. That's where this picture was from."  
Jack gestured to the projected images.  
"We have rather a lot of pictures from then onward until modern day, in the backgrounds of pictures and in military pictures as well as just souvenir pictures, like friends take. As I mentioned before, during WWII he was also known as Câblier*, as a pseudonym. Two thousand years is a very long time to look no older than in your late twenties. We need to capture him and find out what he is and why he's here." _A pity,_ thought Jack. _I liked him._ "Any ideas?"

It was only a few hours later by the time they had Francis Bonnefoy in one of Torchwood's cells. Gwen tossed Jack the device they'd used to put the presumed alien in a force cage and strode upstairs, leaving Jack and the unconscious man alone. The unconscious, stunningly beautiful man, as pretty in sleep as he had been under the layer of grit and arrogant nonchalance he'd worn when Jack and the Frenchman first met. Jack stood as silent as he could, telling his libido sternly to _calm down._ No making out with unknown aliens, not while the alien in question was asleep and unable to give any kind of consent, not on camera and most definitely not without Ianto's knowledge and permission. Finally, after what felt like almost half an hour of waiting, the alien opened his eyes, started to yawn—and saw Jack.  
"Merde.*"

Jack looked at the alien. The man in question scrutinized him for a moment, then his eyes widened slightly, as if in realization. Francis smiled a neutral smile.  
"Bonjour, Capitaine." - _Hello, Captain-*_ The Frenchman straightened up from his sleeping sprawl until he sat slouching on the bench. "Jack Harkness, is it?" The accent wasn't as thick as Jack remembered, but then he had had a bit longer to perfect it since the two last met.  
"Francis." Jack drawled calmly. "I suppose you wouldn't mind telling me what you're doing still alive?"  
The country grinned innocently. "I assume you won't accept that it's because I could never bear to die before you and leave you with such grief at my loss that I would rather die than inflict it?"  
Jack snorted. "Nice try. Why are you really here?"  
Francis laughed, blue eyes sparkling. "It was worth a try. Why are you still here?"  
"Do you really think I'll tell you?"  
The man's blue eyes grew dimmer. "Non. You always did keep your secrets. And now one of those secrets mean you have me here, trapped in a little cage far away from a good wine and the lovely lady that is Paris. Will you do with me as you did with the spy you found as we drove the Germans out of Italy?"  
"No!" Jack's eyes flashed, then he calmed himself with an effort. "If I have to hurt you, Francis, you'll never know what happened. One second you'll be alive, the next you'll be dead. Just tell me what you are and maybe I can let you go."  
"First, tell me one thing. Une petite réponse pour un petit question. " _-One little answer for one little question-.  
_ "What?"  
"What is your little organization for? Your purpose in doing this?"  
"We're Torchwood. That's the only thing I can tell you, and if you try and learn more about it I swear won't find anything—what?"  
Francis had burst out laughing at the mention of Torchwood. "Torchwood? Torchwood?!" he cried. "I thought Rosbif shut that down centuries ago out of sheer embarrassment! Eyebrows still has an organization devoted to tending his fairies?! Ce n'est pas vrai. _–that can't be true-_ I will have to tell Am—Alfred about this, the annoying petit idiot." He gave a final snicker before managing to soothe his laughter a bit.  
"What do you know about Torchwood?" Jack asked guardedly.  
"Pas beaucoup. _–not much-_ I know Arthur founded it a couple hundred years ago to try and 'defend the Earth from outside threats'. But then, Arthur is always talking with fairies and things that don't exist. I thought he shut it down a while ago. Now if he had said it was aliens he was after, that would be different. I've seen aliens before, Alfred's best friend is one."  
Jack raised his eyebrows skeptically. "I don't think I've ever heard of this Arthur of yours, but I do know we're not shut down. And where is this Alfred that has an alien friend? I've never seen that kind of arrangement to end well."  
"Oh, don't you worry, Jacques mon cher. Alfred can take care of himself."  
"I answered your question, Francis. Now answer mine," Jack growled. "What are you?"  
"A boat," Francis answered softly, holding a bright red rose to his lips.  
"That's no kind of answer. Where did you get the flower?"  
"Everywhere."  
"What?" Jack asked incredulously.  
"I got the flower from everywhere," Francis answered calmly. "And I am like a boat. Je ne sais, mais l'État demeura toujours. _–I don't know for sure, but the country will always exist—_ While there is wind in my sail, I must endure, even if I wish I didn't have to."  
"Give me a straight answer," said Jack, "or I shoot your leg."  
"Pardon." Francis leaned up against the plexiglass wall of the cell, legs crossed, shoulders slouched as ever, the stem of the rose held up to his mouth as if it were a cigarette. He looked for all the world like a personification of everything that made French people French, a person seemingly built of nothing but wine, art, cities, and a calm dignity that stayed despite the weevil clawing at the other side of the plexiglass.  
"I am not allowed to tell."  
 _Bang!  
_ Francis jumped. But there was no searing pain, and the captain in his trench coat looked as startled as he did. Jack Harkness whipped around to face the door, gun at the ready. It was Ianto, slightly out of breath, followed by all three other members of the team as they tried to restrain him. The noise had been caused by the door hitting the wall. Francis had leaned back against the corner, staring at Ianto from irritated eyes.  
"Let him go, Jack!" Ianto said tiredly. "I know who he is and he's safe."  
Jack's eyebrows found their way back up into his hair.  
"I've met him before, Ianto. Almost a century ago."  
Ianto ran his fingers through his hair. "Yeah, I know about that, but I'm not allowed to tell you. Just let him go."  
"You knew about this."  
"Yeah."  
"And you didn't tell me."  
Ianto sighed. "I can't. En—Arthur would kill me. So would Ludwig. And probably also Ivan, though it's hard to tell his reaction to anything. Except vodka. And his sister. Natasha, not the older sister."  
"You said you were visiting family." Jack's voice was monotone.  
"I was. Francis is my brother. One of my brothers. Not by blood, of course."  
"Of course. And why _exactly_ can't you tell me?"  
Ianto exchanged glances with Francis.  
"I know you can keep a secret. This is an important one, and if you tell it I will quite likely suffer some rather extreme consequences. Let me introduce myself. Jack Harkness, My name is Ianto Jones. My name is also Wales. Francis, allow me to introduce my boss, Captain Jack Harkness. Sir, this is Francis Bonnefoy, better known as France."  
"Enchanté."

*pronounced f-eh-leex, one of the few presumably masculine French names we know of in that time period and the closest I could find to Francis. It's the nominative form of the latin word for happy.

*From early 15th century Paris, taken from tax rolls from that time period.

*A type of boat dating from the mid 19th century used to lay down underwater cables for things like telecommunications.

*Relatively mild French swearword

*Text in between dashes is the English translation


	2. Who?

**It turns out somebody actually wants me to write more! Yay! And since as much as I love writing France, I don't have a clue how to continue that story, here's another oneshot between the two groups. It turns out that France was not the first of Torchwood's interactions with Hetalia, albeit the first that they knew about. Please welcome to the stage a certain gentleman with unusual eyebrows! :)**

 **P.S.  
How did I do at writing drunk Jack Harkness?**

Why had he insisted on joining that bloody drinking contest, anyway? England groaned softly to himself as he felt the freezing dampness of the trash-littered alley against his cheek. It certainly hadn't been in order to save face, given that he had been drunk enough after three _lovely_ stouts to pick a fight with France. Admittedly, he probably would have done the same thing sober, but at least then England hoped he would have been discreet enough not to get kicked out on his arse. At least the bloody disgusting trash heap disguised as an alley he was in was making the nation become a little less trashed, and quickly too. England began to haul himself to his feet when the headache struck. Of course, sobering up means getting the beginnings of a hangover, he thought. Bloody wankers.  
At that point the steel door to the bar opened and a black-haired man in an American officer's greatcoat. England stared a moment, fuzzy mind trying to point out something… peculiar. Aha! That was it. The greatcoat was a design from… the 1940's? World War II. But how was that unusual? England furrowed his eyebrows, sensing that some part of his brain was jumping up and down in frustration, trying to be noticed and understood. Unfortunately, the newcomer interrupted England's difficulty with internal semaphore by stumbling drunkenly toward the wall and sliding down it to sit next to England.

"Hey there!" Jack attempted a wavering salute as he sat down beside a blond man who lay flat on his back in a dark green military outfit. The man glared up at him, revealing green eyes. Jack scrunched up his face in puzzlement. "What? Is it the cater- caterpil- bushy things on your face? 're they bothering you?"  
It took a minute for the stranger to register a response. When he did, the blond man began abruptly to sit up, staring at Jack in confusion. "I have hair on my face?"  
Jack smiled at the sound of the slurred British accent. "Your face, no, that's not right, your voice reminds me of someone."  
"What? Who? I have… voice on my face?"  
Jack blinked. "What? No, no, you've got… thingy on your face. I think. Yeah. Right here." He reached out a hand to poke one of the great blond caterpillars of hair above the Brit's eyes.  
"Oy!" the man cried. "That's my bloody eyebrow!" he jerked away from Jack, only to lose his balance and slither slowly down the wall before dragging his uncooperative body back up.  
"Anyway," Jack continued, "There's a thing, thing, yeah that's what it was, your voice, it reminds me of a guy I used to know. You know. Before he, he left me over here. Yeah."  
The Brit frowned a little, than spoke. "Who the hell are you? Got kicked out, too?"  
Jack shrugged vaguely. "My name is, my name's Jack Harkness. Captain Jack Harkness. Kicked out, whee, out of the bar. Said I was too drunk, picking a fight with a scruffy little kid. He asked for it, asked for it, yeah. Who're you?"  
"Eng—Arthur Kirkland, at your service."

The two sat in silence for a while, the man who introduced himself as Jack Harkness eventually falling over and dozing off. At last England shook him awake as his slowly recovering brain finally managed to get a message across. His coat. The man—Jack Harkness's coat was from the 1940s. And the man himself was not, at least not if visible signs of age were any clue.  
"Where'd you get that coat?" England asked bluntly.  
"Hmm?" The man who claimed to be a captain finally opened his eyes, looking slightly less smashed than before.  
"Your coat. I like it. It reminds me of a friend of mine, from the same time period and all. Where'd you get it?"  
Jack smiled faintly. "I acquired it a long time ago, during wartime. I wasn't really involved of course, not officially anyway. There was a pretty girl there. Really pretty girl. Rose, I think her name was. And him, of course. Creepy time."  
England blinked. "Which war?"  
"Ah, man, I don't know. You're pretty cute an' all, but she was cuter."  
"Girl? Oh, right, you mentioned a girl. Rose?"  
"Rose Tyler, man! Haven't seen her in a long time, well, relatively speakin'. Strangest girl. Loved that guy though, that she traveled with, what was his name? Dunno."  
Another note of strangeness began rapping on England's brain for attention, but he ignored it in favor of tipsy conversation. He leaned back against the wall, staring at the door to the bar. "I knew a girl named Rose once. Haven't seen her in a while, either. Saved my arse from al—some serious problems more times than you could believe. 'Course, half the time I think she, well, her friend really, attracts that kind of trouble magnet."  
"Yeah. I know the feeling, English."  
England jumped. "Why did you just call me that?"  
Jack looked up at him, finally hauling himself into a sitting position. "English? Cause you're English, and you sound English, like really English. You sound and, thing, look like if there's anything that's really English, you have it, or do it, or know about. You know?"  
"Don't."  
Jack looked puzzled at the forcefulness of the reply. "Okay. Fine, jeesh, no big deal. It's just you remind me more of that than of that other guy, the important one, the one you remind me of. No harm done."  
England relaxed again. This babbling buffoon has no idea what he's talking about after all, then. "Who is this man you continue to refer to?"  
Jack narrowed his eyes in the beginnings of sobriety. "A doctor. My doctor, well, not really mine, not really anyone's, not even his own planet's. I dunno his name though, I've only ever heard him called Doctor. Or Doc, sometimes. One person even calls him sweetie! And so I know that I will never have my hands on him or that girl, his girl, Rose. Tragic. You're pretty cute, too, though, yeah."  
Bloody wanker, England muttered under his breath. American and he acts like France, just my luck.  
At that point, the grey door swung open. Holding it open was Italy, looking as fresh as ever. Bloody wanker, holding his drink that well.  
"Ve, Eng—Arthur!" he cried, "Ludwig said to tell you we'll all be leaving in un attimo! – _one moment!—_ He said if you need a ride, you're on your own and should probably call a cab, which wasn't very nice of him but he's taking one too, probably because he's drunk and doesn't trust me to operate heavy machinery which I think is very mean of him but he's probably right. Anyway! I'm just here to tell you that if you want to catch your train, now is a very good time to leave!"  
England groaned again as he shoved himself to his feet to join the other nations. Wait, he thought all of a sudden. What did that man say the girl's name was again? Rose. And her friend… Doctor. A doctor. No name. Doctor. The Doctor. And Rose. And his name was… Jack Harkness? Jack. Captain Jack Harkness. He turned around to look at the man in the officer's coat sitting in the alleyway. Torchwood.


End file.
